Phil Coulson v20
by selmak
Summary: Phil wonders who and what he is after the Battle of New York. Fortunately, there's a good friend to help him set his mind at ease.
1. Chapter 1

Phil Coulson v2.0

Phil Coulson refuses to acknowledge the strange looks he gets whenever he appears in the office. Their nervous smiles, the rapid swallowing, adam's apple bobbing, and the glazed looks in his fellow agents' eyes. He doesn't acknowledge because if he does, the dam will break.

"Tahiti is a magical place," is his new mantra.

Coulson obediently recites it like the dutiable parrot he is, whenever his miraculous return is mentioned. He's been in the business long enough to know that he's Pavlov's dog, ring the bell and watch him parrot the phrase. It's a calming phrase, a mnemonic that calms him, an embedded failsafe that prevents him from looking too closely at his death.

_Tahiti is a magical place. _

He died, he knows. For all the dry quips regarding bright shiny lights, Asgardian Mussolinis and Tahiti, Phil Coulson knows that he died. For far longer than the forty seconds he admits.

What Phil admits to no one, not even in the middle of the night when he wakes, screaming, seeing the scepter pierce his chest, feeling his heart falter in his chest, is that he's not sure that Phil Coulson didn't die.

And stay dead.

"_I'm sorry, boss. The god rabbited," he whispered._

_Nick Fury, as close to tears as Phil had ever seen him, which meant that Phil Coulson was well and truly screwed and about to get sized for a new wardrobe completed with angel wings and halo, barked, "Just stay awake. Eyes on me."_

"_No. I'm clocked out here," Phil admitted. _

_Nick Fury growled, "Not an option."_

_Really, Nick Fury had an ego to match Tony Stark if he thought he could prevent death by simple, blind obedience. And Phil Coulson, loyal terrier, tried. _

Phil Coulson pretends not to notice how there seems to be a six inch bubble that exists around him. No one stands too close to him in the most crowded of elevators. No one walks next to the Dead Man Walking.

Just in case it's contagious. Nothing personal, he understands.

And he pretends that he doesn't notice because he's not sure how he will handle the dam breaking when he realizes that he is in fact, not the Real Phil Coulson.

When Coulson is given a new assignment by a Nick Fury, who couldn't quite meet his eyes, he accepts on the condition that he gets to pick his team. His team, this Phil Coulson's team, will not have a single member that witnessed the Battle of New York from the sky. Not a single member that saw Phil Coulson die.

He puts FitzSimmons on the team because at one time, they amused him. Deeply. Grant Ward and Skye sparks and snarks and combusts. They are so alive, that he decides to keep them though any sane agent... the old Phil Coulson... would have told them to get a hotel room.

Melinda knows the old Phil, and he adds her because Nick Fury suggests... suggests so mildly that it almost hides the fact that it's an Order from a Man who Believes he can Command the Dying not to Die. However, Phil knows if he has to have a Minder, its best that it is Melinda, because she's been broken and torn asunder like he has been. He's permitted to pretend that he's giving her a second chance.

It's a group of misfits, and when Skye calls him and Melinda out on arguing in front of the kids, there's a moment when he feels like the old Phil. But it comes and goes so fast, it's almost as though it was a mirage.

Now there's a shiny sheen that seems to coat everything so he feels... disconnected.

Dead, if you will.

A thought that floats through his psyche until it permeates everything he does. He cuts himself shaving, and he bleeds, so he must be alive. The clumsiness with handguns, it's a result of the anesthesia, he assures himself. It's not every day an Asgardian Mussolini Coulson-ka-Bobs him. There are times, painful times, when he realizes that something that should be so familiar, seems as though it is the very first time. Yet Phil Coulson soldiers on, because the Old Phil and the New Phil, perhaps the same, yet perhaps not, is a SHIELD agent.

That's enough.

And if he can't sleep at night, well, he tries to hide it from the kids. No need to let them know that Dad's having issues. It's tough carrying the weight on the heavens on his shoulder, but carries it he does, until even Atlas must collapse. He's not sure what the final stress that cracks his emotional damn is, but he struggles to keep himself together because the kids need him. The case ends, good guys (and girls) win and that's enough for now. Because he needs to get out of the field, needs a vacation, perhaps to mythical Tahiti.

He needs to find that resort, to have his emotional strength restored. Because he knows that the kids will get scared when Daddy breaks down in tears.

They're in the middle of nowhere, with Melinda driving the van, when Jim Cantore from the Weather Channel predicts, in near orgasmic euphoria, that all the weather forecasters were wrong, because the perfect storm, the biggest blizzard they've seen in decades, will hit exactly where they are in two hours. In answer to Jim's frenzied snow dance, big, fat snowflakes hits the windshield

"Any chance of getting to a hotel?" He asks.

Skye assures him that there's a hotel of some sort and a diner next door. He hopes that that the diner is a twenty four hour one as he predicts that a pot of black, bitter coffee is in his future. Because the nightmares are getting worse and worse, and he fears the kids will hear his night tremors through the paper thin walls of the hotel.

He wishes he was home, where his screams don't disturb anyone.

There's nearly a foot of heavy, wet snow when the hotel's in sight. It's taken several hours for them to get this far, and Coulson's temper is worn thin. Perhaps because he sympathesizes with Melinda for having to drive in this ... shit... or perhaps because the Old Man is tired of his kids. They're loud and they're boisterous and they're just so goddamn alive and they waste it on three hours of "Truth and Dare" and "Whose better? Kirk or Picard?" When he answers, "Sisco," the kids realize that Dad is tired and pissed and they leave him out of their reindeer game.

The fact that the hotel is a dive, suitable for truckers and hookers improves his mood not one bit.

"Park it, I'll get the rooms," he tells Melinda. The catcalls begin, each wanting a specific room so he gifts Melinda with a smile. "Four rooms as I'm on an expense account. The kids have to share. The adults get their own rooms."

She laughs, and he tries to hide his fear. His physical exhaustion threatens his control, and he wants to be on the other side of the hotel. Naturally, the gods of the perverse... Loki, having taken a side job, apparently decides that there are only three rooms.

Melinda notices that Phil Coulson is withdrawing into himself. Yes, he laughs and teases the kids as he calls them, but there's moments, when she finds him ... naval gazing. She doesn't approve of what Fury's done, though she has long accepted the bitter truth. Fury and Fury alone, decides when you're done with SHIELD.

She's a loyal SHIELD agent, so she reports her analytical, logical findings regarding Coulson to Fury. He's the same agent he has always been. Still sharp, still Coulson. Still the best there is. She keeps her personal concerns to herself about how Phil seems to be trying too hard to be the Old Phil. It's only when she's protesting being bunked with Skye and Simmons that she sees the cracks in his facade. His eyes are glassy and red rimmed. He looks... exhausted.

"I'm the senior agent, I get the single room," he insists. "If it makes you feel better, I get the room with the mirror on the ceiling."

Being the parents, it behooves them to ignore Skye's cattiness when she suggests it's a room perfect for a certain team member. Though the old Coulson would have cracked a smile and Melinda mourns anew.

* * *

His change of clothes had been lost somewhere in Nebraska, he thinks, so he strips down to his boxers. His gun is placed just so, door is locked, and he places assorted chairs in front of the door – that way if anyone breaks through the door, they'll trip over a chair leg, giving him enough time to react. That done, he lies on the bed, and stares at the ceiling.

It's almost pornographic, he decides, watching himself stare at the ceiling. He touches himself, no... not jerking off... as the new Phil hasn't had sex since before he was turned into a swizzle stick complete with Coulson garnish, but the smooth scar, right where his heart should be.

Where his heart is.

He hears it beat, feels it beat and it pulses and races in his veins.

He falls asleep, and the dream begins anew.

The scepter is in his heart, he is drowning in his own blood and Fury is refusing to let him go. He screams a futile protest, screams until his throat is raw He wakes after nearly breaking Grant Ward's nose by driving his palm upwards when the kid tries to wake him from a nightmare where he's being buried alive while Nick Fury smilingly approves. Simmons lies supine on the floor, Fitz back in the corner and Skye brandishing a floor lamp like she's bloody Sifjar.

"Put the floor lamp down," he barks. "If you want to wreck a hotel room wreck your own , I'm still paying off the last incident."

"I'll handle this," Melinda orders. "Back to your rooms."

There's a futile attempt at a revolt, but The Mother has spoken. Of the two parents, Coulson is the most lenient because that's how the old Coulson was. It's best that Melinda is handling this, so she can inform Fury that he's not fit for work.

"I set up the sound damper outside our rooms, so no one heard anything," Leo Fitz offers. Then in the worst lie Coulson has ever heard voiced, Fitz adds, "We didn't even hear you. We wanted to invite you to our poker game."

"Strip poker," offers Skye. Then in a feeble attempt at joke, she adds, "You don't even need to get dressed. You won't be wearing much for long."

The kids are trying to reassure Dad, he realizes. He'd crack a smile in silent gratitude, if he didn't feel himself coming completely undone.

He crawls into a ball, wishing he could hide under the covers. It couldn't possibly be worse, unless he was wearing his Captain American boxers. They had been a "Welcome Back from Valhalla" gift from Tony Stark. Based on the gasps he hears, he's displayed the entrance scar which meanders across his back.

"Pull it in tighter, I want Coulson's room complete soundproof."

Melinda stabs him in the ass with a syringe full of liquid peace and Phil Coulson falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

There are brief moments of clarity when he's close to rousing. There are voices, concerned voices that whisper amongst themselves and he drifts off because he hears Melinda's voice. He's safe and the kids are safe because the The Cavalry is there.

When Phil finally wakes, Melinda is sitting in his room.

"It stopped snowing and it started again. Roads aren't passable," she assures him. "You've slept for the last two days. You needed it."

He pulls himself into a sitting position. Fortunately, it's Melinda who has seen all there is of him back when they were young and hormonal. They were nowhere near as bad as the kids though. Melinda was always discreet and he, being the luckiest junior agent in SHIELD, didn't want to mess up a good thing by bragging.

And she doesn't blink an eye at his scar. She doesn't shy away from it, but Melinda has looked at it, has pondered it and has decided there is nothing to say about it. And Coulson blesses her kindness.

"Mind turning around?" He asks. "I'd like to get dressed."

She turns even while she tells him that the kids are having breakfast in a bit and his appearance is required.

"They are worried," is all she admits. "We could hear you screaming. We couldn't wake you and you took down half the team."

"Ouch," he says.

"They'll be quicker next time," she says."I've already scheduled Grant for some intensive remediation on his hand to hand skills."

He snorts in dry amusement.

"What did you tell Fury?" he asks after he cleaned up as well as he can. He's wearing only his dress pants, and his attempts to unwrinkle his shirt by brushing it with his hand are failing. Miserably.

"That you were exhausted and you were taking a vacation," she admits. "And if he continued to ask about you, I'd get the feeling he didn't trust me."

He quirks a smile as Melinda had nailed Fury with that comment.

"A vacation... In Kansas?" He asks.

"Yes, though I think we're actually in Oklahoma," she retorts. Then she hands him a coffee, and he knows that she's made it the way he likes it. Black and one sugar.

He drinks it gratefully, hoping it will clear the headache that comes from sleeping too much. He's drinking it when he realizes... Melinda May has added something to the drink. He flicks his tongue and tastes vanilla. Quickly, he returns to his bed and sinks into it. Best not to fall flat on his face.

"You drugged me," he protests. "What's in it?"

What he likes best about Melinda, she doesn't protest or deny. She just smiles at him, and shakes her head.

"Why? Is it Fury?" he asks.

A sinking fear fills his heart that Fury is... concerned... about his rationality. He's been in Shield long enough to know how it will end for him if he's deemed unsuitable. Yes, there have been the jokes, about agents being taken out back and shot, or ending up mindwiped in Hoboken. Now, facing it, it shames him that he's terrified. SHIELD has been everything to him, wife and family, and ... he's given everything to the cause. Even his life!

He briefly remembers lying in a hospital bed, screaming at Fury, cursing him for his presumption and his arrogance. Melinda says nothing, so he feels obligated to fill the silence.

"I know what they say about me," he admits. "They say that I'm not the same man I was."

She still says nothing.

"I am," he insists. "I _**am**_."

"Are you convincing me, or convincing yourself?"

He doesn't say anything because... because they both know the answer.

"Since... Tahiti..." he begins. "I'm not sure if I am. I'm not sure of anything anymore."

To his surprise, she sits next to him on the bed and she leans toward him. There's a look in her eyes that he remembers or he thinks he does, so he leans towards her. Their kiss lacks the passion of their early years, but there's more now. Friendship, compassion and understanding, the understanding of what being broken is like, and he craves reassurance now. But the failures are fresh in his mind. The issue with his handgun that required him to retrain himself into his former level of comfort.

Those times when he feels like he's experiencing something for the very first time, though he knows... knows... it isn't. Like now.

_God, I can't be a fifty year old virgin. Could I?_

"Melinda," he warns her, his voice unexpectedly husky. "I... I.,,"

"Shhh..." she whispers before she kisses him again.

She pushes him onto the bed, and the old Phil, Phil Coulson v1.0, would have been more assertive. But the nuPhil, Phil Coulson v2.0, is grateful.

They're barely into the best part, of the mutual kissing and the touching, the remembering of how Melinda liked to be touched just so when he comes. He's so beyond mortified that he stutteringly apologizes over and over, while Melinda just kisses him. "Let me get a washcloth," she says.

She leaves his bed and he watches her go. She's a beautiful sight as she's naked and lean. There's a new tattoo on her back, so there's something to talk about besides his premature ejaculation.

What he's always liked about Melinda is her unflappability, but he's still profoundly moved when after he cleans up the mess, she crawls back into bed with him. The kisses begin anew, and before long, amazingly quickly, he's standing at attention. They spent the next hour or longer in pleasant silent communion, only broken by one or two syllables words such as _please_, _yes_, _more_...

It's later when Phil is resting his head on Melinda's beautiful breasts when he speaks.

"I don't know who I am anymore," he whispers. "Who am I?"

She kisses him on the top of his head and tells him, "You're Phil Coulson."

And he's overwhelmingly reassured, so much that he cannot voice his thanks.

_I'm Phil Coulson. I'm Phil Coulson_, he thinks and more importantly, he believes that simple truth for the first time in far too long.

"Breakfast is actually lunch," she tells him. "We'll need to meet them in an hour. The kids were worried, but I spoke to them. They know that you were pushing yourself too hard and I dared them not to have nightmares after the Battle of New York."

"I owe you," he admits.

"Next time I get the single room," she retorts and they both laugh.

Lunch was uneasy at first, as Phil felt... awkward, but the kids made an effort to be accepting and reassuring, more importantly, no one mentioning how he had nearly subdued the entire lot of them when he woke from his nightmare.

And if he and Melinda shared a secret, warm smile between the two of them, the kids were nice enough not to notice.


	2. Chapter 2

Lunch or brunch or whatever the kids wished it called, has already been set up and the children, their faces shining from a quick wash up, all sitting in their places. He's late as he had obeyed Melinda's order to shower before he joins then. Ensures that he and Melinda arrive at different times. Less suspicious that way. However, the only open seat is next to Melinda, so he sits next to her.

"Thank you," he quietly mouths to Melinda. Carefully, so no one else sees. Last thing he wishes is for Skye to comment. He also notices that everyone had a menu in front of their face, plus everyone had drinks that had been sampled.

So he was late. Deliberately done, so Mom and the kids could privacy converse before Dad joins them for lunch.

"_Everyone be on their best behavior. Dad's had a rough day at work."_

He sideways glances at Melinda, who tilts her head back at him. Yes, the two of them just repeatedly had comfort sex but she never has mollycoddled him. She wasn't one for comforting, except on the rare times she was.

"I..." he speaks hesitantly. "I hope I didn't hurt any of you. I'm very sorry if I did."

"Don't apologize," snaps Melinda. "No one got hurt, and if they did, well, they need to work on their hand to hand skills."

He nods his head, and still no one speaks. But the menus are lowered, around the table, so he hesitantly smiles at them. Skye gives him a wide smile and puts down her menu. He tries, and fails, to not remembering how she had grabbed the floor lamp in his room during his nightmare. He sees Simmons lying on the ground with Fitz collapsed in the corner.

He's overwhelmed by his lost of control and he sympathizes still more with Dr. Banner.

"What do you recommend on the menu?" he asks. There. Nice, easy, safe question.

"There's chicken fried steak, fried okra, black eyes peas and biscuits and gravy," Fitz announces.

"I feel my arteries hardening," he quips.

A few chuckles and more of the menus rest on the table. He smiles again, tries to be seen as well... less crazy. Sane seems be too much of a stretch at the moment. But Dad watches and categorizes his children. How Simmons hides her left arm, Fitz rubs his head. Grant's wearing dark glasses in a diner ... in winter and Skye's hair styled so carefully to hide the bruise on her neck.

Dad sticks with something light, claims exhaustion and leaves. He wishes not to ruin everyone's mood and he returns back to his hotel room where he watches the newscaster discuss the snow. When that gets old, and cold, he turns the channel and realizes he's watching the scene when Travis has to shoot Old Yeller as the old dog is rabid and turns on everyone. It hits too close to home so he switches the channel and watches the weather... but not really... when Melinda enters his room. She doesn't knock, she enters.

Forces of Nature never knock when entering a room. He's lucky that she didn't kick down the door.

"You didn't tell me." That was his curt greeting.

"No." She says it simply, bluntly and surprisingly, with compassion. "You had enough to deal with. I handled it for you."

He nods his head in acknowledgement.

"How bad?"

"Simmons' wrist is badly bruised. Fitz – concussion, Grant's got a shiner to match his personality and Skye's got whiplash."

He says nothing, because nothing can be said. Instead, he retreats into himself. Melinda sits in a chair and she waits for him to speak. Finally, he does.

"Thank you," is what he manages but Melinda knows him well enough to know what he can't say. '_Why didn't you tell me_?' does not explode from him. Because he fears what else may be unearthed if he does lose control. There's no shame to admit to himself, that he deeply fears the secrets that Melinda keeps.

Has kept from him for years.

And has kept for him for longer.

They were partners, and more, once. He had been secure enough in his ability not to fear having a younger female partner of her caliber. Thought the pressure would make him better. The others, they hadn't understood, thought her an ice queen. No, not Melinda, but she had to trust you to let you in.

He curses the stupid young man he had been. He inhales and exhales repeatedly until he's calmer, internally.

Thankfully, Mom had taken charge of the children when Dad was zonked out on drugs in a cheap hotel room with a mirror on the ceiling. Yet more must be said.

"About earlier today," he says.

She stiffens, slightly but still noticeably to someone that knows her as well as he does. There is a pain in her eyes that he fails to understand but he knows somehow, it's his fault.

"Thank you," he repeats his earlier sentiment, this time in Cantonese. It took a moment for his mind to wrap around the Cantonese, wishing to thank her for the _**gift**_, not for a _**service**_.

Melinda relaxes, as though she had feared, 'It was a huge mistake.'

Never, ever had any of his experiences with Melinda been a mistake.

Well, yes, their divorce had been a mistake, but he had been drowning in self-blame and hate and he had feared pulling her down into that abyss. Setting her free had been the right thing to do, but it doesn't stop the regrets in the middle of the night.

Yes, there had been others for them both, but those relationships such as his brief flirtation with Camilla Reyes had never compared to his time with Melinda.

The divorce had been "amicable", and it hadn't destroyed their friendship, though sometimes he wonders if Melinda had truly forgiven him for what had caused their relationship to go off the rails. The new relationship had been awkward at first, as they had redrawn their boundaries. They had worked on still being friends and when all hell had broke loose in Belfast, he had hightailed it there because Melinda was in trouble.

When she had refused to see anyone, he had ignored her request. Had to knock out a guard or three, but the verbal reprimand and the written reprimand in his folder, combined with Fury giving a new hole, had been worth it because Melinda had taken her rage and frustration out on him. He had let her pound away at him until she had wept. She never permitted herself to cry, so he took the blame for her breakdown.

He had held her through the first night. The second and the third.

The fourth night, they had made love for the first time since the divorce.

"I really hope... it was _**good**_ for you. It is very important to me that it was," he says.

"Of course it was," she agrees.

"I worried," he continues.

She shakes her head and tilts it in the way he knows so very well. That special way when she's trying to appear cold-hearted but fails because she thinks he's being ... cute and sincere. She fails miserably as she's trying not to smile. He kisses her on her cheek, and she turns away from him because his sincere thanks, not his lousy Cantonese, has touched her deeply.

"You need to work on your Cantonese," she crisply informs him. "You just requested snails in your tea."

"I don't get a chance to use it besides ordering take out."

Melinda snorts her disgust at takeout.

"Fury knows that I injured my team." He speaks as though it is the truth. Knowing Melinda, it is.

Melinda nods her head. Slightly.

"When's my meeting with him?" He is proud that his voice is calm, serene even.

"When we get back," she admits.

"If I'm to be expunged as a liability, you tell me. I don't want you having to do it. I'll eat my gun, and save you the trouble. I owe you that much, if not more."

"Phil," she protests as she doesn't have and has never had any use for his fatalistic pragmatism. "You had a nightmare and you didn't realize who we were when we tried to wake you. I don't think you'll be Redacted."

"I lost control and hurt my team. That normally means a Redact, especially when you're a team lead."

Redacting is a SHIELD specialty for retiring agents and less fortunate agents. If you make it to retirement, there's a nice party and then at the end, you're taken out back to the Redacting Shed. It involves the removal of memories and replacing them before you end up in a golf course resort in South Carolina where one wear their belts above their waist and white tube socks with shorts. Well, if you've been good. If you haven't, off to Hoboken with you.

The mind is like the cassette tape. An old fashion cassette tape, where the magnetically charged tape winds and winds on two reels. You can erase, and write over only the once, because the tape is flimsy. Too much erasing and soon you're listening to an unholy mix tape of John Sebastian Bach and Sebastian Bach.

For a moment, Melinda looks fearful but Phil knows he's mistaken. Melinda's never been fearful. Not once in all the time that he's known her. However, they both know that Phil Coulson had been Redacted. Not enough to remove the memory, but enough to soften a devastating trauma so it didn't overwhelm him. Wasn't on any of the official or unofficial SHIELD records. The Redact had just been between him, Melinda and a strange fellow by the name of Stephen and Nick Fury had never, ever known. It's not like he's been Redacted since then.

Has he? He'd remember, now would he?

He remembers meeting Stephen Strange as Melinda had located him after the incident. When he had been sunk in a grief and self-despite so deep that Melinda had thought a Redact was the only option.

He should have driven the damn car. He had thought Anderson had seemed... off... but he and Melinda had been in protective custody due to a threat. They had been moving from Safe House to Safe House under SHIELD's protection. He had just put his arm around Melinda, urged her to get some sleep when Anderson had turned traitor and decided to take a hard right off California Route 1.

Before the Battle of New York, there were nights when he woke up, heart in his throat, reliving the crunching sounds of the van flipping over and over. Now, his nightmares are a Hodgepodge mess of aliens, death and flipping vans.

"You're thinking about what happened," Melinda says. "You've got that look in your eyes."

"I always think about it. Every single day of my life," he admits. "How when you needed me most, I was..." Emotionally unavailable doesn't come close to describing his condition. Catatonic might be better.

"Stop it." There's no anger in her tone, just a weary acceptance of what they can never change.

"I bitterly regret," he begins but Melinda stops him with a shake of her head.

"Enough. It's _**over**_. It's been more than twenty years, Phil. Stop ripping open the scar," she protests.

He's not sure what's was the better way to handle it. He and Melinda had handled it in significantly different ways which had twisted and warped their marriage beyond any hopes of repair. At a loss for words, he brushes her hair away from her face and he tilts his head.

"Thank you," he says, again. "I'm glad you agreed to drive the bus."

"You piqued my interest when you said it was a really nice bus," she admits. They're on safer ground now, what with Melinda feeling playful. Less likely to end up horizontal. While he enjoys, deeply, the rare times they reconnect, the days afterwards are unusually melancholy ones for him. He has mourned and will continue to mourn everything that he lost that faithful day.

"Not the chance to work together again?" he asks, with a fake pout.

"Working with you means that I keep you a... out of trouble." There's a moment, where Melinda slips. She was about to say, _**alive**_, he realizes. The playfulness disappears as quickly as it had arrived.

"I think I could use a vacation," he states. A futile attempt to change the subject. "Tahiti's nice. It's... magical."

He struggles to say anything but magical, but nothing prevents himself from saying it. What disturbs him the most was the fact that he felt calmer after saying it.

_Tahiti's magical. Ring! Pavlov's dog is drooling. Or in this case, Fury's bitch. _

"Phil?" Melinda asks.

"Tahiti is always magical. It never rains. It's just magical. It's like... I've been conditioned." He inhales and exhales. "When I was injured, did they notify you?"

He had never removed her as the person to notify in case of emergency. There isn't anyone else who knows him well enough to make decisions if he's unable, as he has no family. His mother was dead, and his father had been a soldier who had died before Phil was born. Asking about his father was futile as his mother could never talk about him.

As a kid, he had made up a heroic father-figure, a war hero who had died in battle. Like Steve Rogers. And he had never bothered finding out the truth of his father, even with all of SHIELDs network at his disposal as he feared being disappointed.

Maybe that's why he feels a kinship, of sorts, with Skye. Both had never known their fathers, so he tries to guide her, like a father should. And to deliver the smack down when she needs it, as Phil Coulson was a firm believer in Tough Love.

When he asks Melinda if she had been notified about his injury, the look of pain again crosses her face.

"Yes," Melinda admits. "I was there. You don't remember? When you were in ICU after your surgery? They had to restrain your hands as you tried to remove your chest tube. The staff said that you seemed calmer when you realized that I was there."

"I don't remember anything. I remember getting shanked... white lights... then Tahiti. I try to remember, but I can't. I can't... there's nothing there... It's like, it's been Redacted."

Melinda slowly inhales and exhales. She does that when she's reliving a painful memory.

"When I finally was able to see you, it was almost a week after the Battle of New York. I don't know what happened before I arrived," she admits. "You were heavily sedated, and I nearly had to pull a Coulson to see you. Dr. Maximoff was quite protective of you."

"Maximoff?" He repeats.

"Some specialist Fury brought in," she says.

Maximoff. His blood runs cold.

"Wanda Maximoff?" he repeats.

Wanda Maximoff... code name the Scarlet Witch... He knows about her and her 'project'.

"I believe that was her name. I never met her and they did everything they could to keep her involvement quiet. I let them think they succeeded as technically, she doesn't exist." Melinda continues for a bit, but Phil Coulson doesn't hear. "It took all I could to actually discover her name."

Wanda Maximoff.

That name means in fact, that Philip J. Coulson did die.

As in quite utterly dead.

And he was brought back from the other side.

And he knows full well after reading the various classified reports that none of Wanda Maximoff's patients were the same after they were revived.

None of them were sane, either.


End file.
